COPYRIGHT,  1906 

BY 
HILTON    R .    GREEK 


THE  SPIDERS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


So  tt?p  fHrmnrg  of  iKit  Mother 


FOR  permission  to  reprint  a  number  of  poems  in 
this  volume  thanks  are  due  the  Delineator,  National 
Magazine,  Smart  Set,  Lippincott's  Magazine,  Sunday 
School  Times,  and  other  publications  in  which  the 
verses  originally  appeared. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  Spiders       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .11 

Dust  of  Stars         .                    ......  13 

To   Any   Scoffer         ........  14 

Memory          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  15 

A    Village    Street 16 

The  Gift         .  18 
After   Much   Wandering    .                            ,.          .          .          .19 

'Stanton       '*  J  *    *&&  fr...*,i.-*.-    0  ^'-C-;  •      m         m  2O 

Shore   Lights      .                             ......  21 

Seedtime         .........  22 

At   Harvest         .          .                    ......  23 

After  Storm           ........  24 

The  Truest   Thankfulness  .          .          .          .          .          .25 

At  the  Stahle   Door 26 

To  a  Little  Child      .                            28 

Quatrains        .          .                    ......  29 

Forgetfulness     .         .                   ......  31 

Out  of  the  Dusk            .......  32 

A  Smile  and  a  Song         .......  33 

Then  and  Now       ........  34 

The  Bubble  Chaser   ........  35 

Who  Dwells  with   Nature      ......  39 

Conquest             .........  41 

An   April   Lyric     ........  42 

Inter-Pines         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          -43 

The  Hills  of  June          .......  44 


CONTENTS. 

Pafff 

A  Garden  Romance  .......  46 

The  Goal  .  48 

At   a   Mockbird   Matinee   .          .  ....  50 

To  a  Blasted  Pine         .  .  53 

The  Thunderstorm    ......  -55 

Crossroads  Schoolhouse    ......  56 

The  Hush  at  Harvest       ....  .59 

The  Wood  Gypsy  .......  60 

A  Health  to  October  61 

And  One  Had  Love      .......  65 

Love's  Hour  .........  66 

./'Memorial  Day       ........  67 

Blossoms  of  May     ........  68 

Castle   and    Cabin.         .......  69 

Song  of  a  Summer's   Day         ......  70 

Carita    ..........  71 

The   Conqueror          ........  75 

One   Golden   Day.         ...  ...  76 

Where  Love  Holds   Sway         ......  77 

Buenas    Noches.    Senorita      ......  78 

To  a  Red-Haired  Maiden         ......  79 

An  Autumn  Lure.         ...  .         .  80 

An  October  Song     .  ....  .81 

A  Rose  of  Yesterday    .......  82 

A   Lover's   Question.         .  .  ...  84 

A  Dream  in  the  Dusk.  ......  85 

.-     Texas         .  ......  -93 


THE  SPIDERS. 


THE  SPIDERS. 

CLOSE  by  Life's  gardenside, 
Silently,  ceaselessly, 
Tangling  the  hearts  of  men 
Deep  in  its  meshes, 
Spinneth  a  spider. 

Silently,  ceaselessly. 
Weaving  a  web  that  is 
Fashioned  of  filminess, 
Sun-gleams  and  gossamers 
Dew-pearled  and  odorous  ; 
Weaving  a  web  that  is 
Frailer  than  mist  at  times. 
Steel-strong  at  others, 
Tangling  the  hearts  of  men 
Ever  and  hopelessly 
In  its  soft  thonging, 
Spinneth  the  blithe-footed 
Spider  of  Love ! 

Close  by  Life's  gardenside, 
Swiftly,  relentlessly, 
II 


THE    SPIDER. 

Stifling  the  hearts  of  men 
In  its  thick  meshes, 
Spinneth  a  spider. 

Silently,  ceaselessly, 
Swiftly,  relentlessly, 
Weaving  a  web  that  is 
Dull-hued  and  lusterless  ; 
Weaving  a  web  so  dense 
Yet  so  impalpable, 
Soft  and  insidious, 
None  may  escape  it— 
Spinneth  the  thousand-eyed. 
Eager,  implacable, 
Gray,  gaunt,  and  terrible 
Spider  of  Death ! 


12 


DUST  OF  STARS. 

MEN  are  but  clods  incarnate,  we  are  told ; 

Frail  creatures,  fashioned  of  a  common  clay. 
Hut  soul-filled  soil  which,  to  the  mother-mold 

From  whence  it  sprung,  one  day  returneth.     Nay, 

Fashioned  of  dust  are  we,  but  dust  of  stars ! 

Why  else  this  beating  of  wild  spirit-wings, 
Striving  to  break  earth's  sordid  prison  bars 

And  soar,  sod-spurning,  unto  astral  things? 


TO  ANY  SCOFFER. 

OUT  on  you,  babbler !     You,  and  all  your  breed 
Who  dare  assail  the  potency  of  rhyme ! 

Saying  the  bard's  best  songs  but  go  to  feed 

The  insatiate  hunger  of  the  tapeworm.  Time ! 

Know'st  not,  O  fool,  Time  woke  with  song?    That  life 

Itself  is  one  long  epic,  years  on  years, 
Pulsing  with  martial  measures,  stir  of  strife, 

And  changing  cadences  of  smiles  and  tears  ? 

Know'st  not  that  spirit  which,  from  David's  lyre 
Outbreathed,  drove  demons  from  the  breast  of  Saul, 

Has  in  it  something  of  a  living  fire 
Which  shall  endure  no  little  while,  but  all  ? 

Yea,  not  for  now,  nor  unborn  years  alone  ; 

But  when  Earth's  little  peoples  cease  to  be, 
The  soul  of  Song  shall  echo  round  God's  throne 

Through  endless  eons  of  eternity ! 


MEMORY. 

SHRINED  in  the  inmost  chamber  of  the  heart 
There  is  a  vase  of  sheer  and  beaten  gold, 
A  fragile  thing  and  exquisite,  wherein 
The  fairest  flowers  of  departed  Junes 
Are  kept  perennial — the  slender  vase 
Which  men  call  Memorv ! 


A   VILLAGE  STREET. 

WHERE  swaying  branches  lace  and  meet 

In  canopies  of  green 
Above  an  old-time  village  street. 

Quiet  and  cool  and  clean, 
The  mellow  sunbeams  filter  slow 

And,  interwrought  with  shade, 
Trace  on  the  velvet  sward  below 

A  shimmering  brocade. 

No  sound  disturbs  the  holy  hush 

That  wraps  the  silent  street 
Save  when  at  times  some  trill  of  thrush 

Drifts  tremulously  sweet; 
Or  else,  when  purple  twilight  flings 

A  gauzy  veil  and  thin, 
Wake  echoes  from  the  tinkling  strings 

Of  mellow  mandolin. 

This  is  the  street,  serene  and  sweet, 

Down  which  in  days  agone 
I  tripped  with  bare  and  buoyant  feet 

Through  dews  of  dusk  and  dawn ; 
16 


A    VILLAGE    STREET. 

Or  romped  at  play  with  comrades  gay 

While  some  long  afternoon 
Droned  slowly,  drowsily  away 

Like  bees  in  fields  of  June. 

Old  quiet  street !  the  steps  that  learn 

The  city's  crowded  ways 
Once  more  and  eagerly  will  turn 

To  scenes  of  other  days, 
And,  sick  of  ceaseless  fray  and  fret, 

Cacophonous  and  rude, 
Will  seek,  while  eyes  grow  dim  and  wet, 

Thy  restful  quietude! 


THE  GIFT. 

ONE  gift  he  claimed  as  his  and,  miser-souled, 
Kept  it  close-prisoned,  lest  on  sudden  wing 
It  seek  some  day  a  keeper  new,  and  leave 
His  life  all  gleaned  of  joy  and  colorless ; 
But  looking  in  one  morn,  solicitous. 
Viewed,  horror-eyed,  a  puny,  shriveled  thing. 
Void  of  all  grace  and  strength  and  loveliness. 

Wide-flinging  then  the  door  that  prisoned  it, 
He  bade  it  seek  the  outer,  ampler  airs, 
The  stretching  world  ways,  teeming  haunts  of  men  ! 
But  ere  the  day  had  waned,  it  came  again. 
Back  to  the  selfsame  door  that  prisoned  it, 
And  he  who  waited,  leaping,  flung  it  wide 
With  eager,  trembling  fingers — and  beheld. 
Not  the  one  hoarded  gift,  but  ten  instead ! 


18 


AFTER  MUCH   WANDERING. 

SOME  day  when  you're  tired  of  the  toiling, 

And  sick  of  the  stress  and  the  strain, 
When  you've  mingled  Life's  rue  with  its  hyssop, 

And  eaten  the  fruit  with  the  husk, 
You  will  follow  the  footprints  of  Fancy 

Down  some  old-fashioned  garden  again. 
Where  the  hollyhocks  flame  and  the  roses 

Gleam  white  on  the  breast  of  the  dusk ! 

And  you'll  think  on  the  years  that  were  wasted 

For  the  place  that  you  purchased  with  peace, 
Of  how  hollow  a  bauble  is  glory — 

How  fleeting  the  guerdons  you  gain ; 
And  your  eyes  will  grow  blind  with  the  blurring 

Of  sorrow  that  knows  not  surcease, 
Some  day  when  you're  tired  of  the  toiling. 

And  sick  of  the  stress  and  the  strain. 

For  the  world  may  be  yours  for  the  winning, 

And  the  prospect  stretch  broad  to  the  view, 
But  the  fruit  that  shone  fair  in  the  distance 

Seems  shrunken  when  grasped  in  the  husk, 
And  your  spirit,  God  knows,  will  be  weary, 

And  you'll  long  for  the  peace  that  you  knew 
Where  the  hollyhocks  flame  and  the  roses 

Gleam  white  on  the  breast  of  the  dusk! 
'9 


STAN  TON. 

WHEN  Stanton,  up  in  Georgia,  tunes  his  magic  lyre 

and  sings, 

The  very  air  grows  murmurous  with   rhythmic  riot- 
ings! 
The  lisp  of  leaves  and  scent  of  sheaves  blend  in  his 

song's  refrain, 
The  hum  of  bees  in  locust  trees  and  meadows  drenched 

with  rain ; 
Beneath  his  spell   Life's  pathway  lies  through  sunlit 

fields  of  June, 
Where  Time  trips  lightly  onward  to  a  banjo's  tinkling 

tune, 
And  sluggish  aims  grow  stronger,  and  newborn  hopes 

upstart, 
And  burst  to  bud  and  blossom  in  the  gardens  of  the 

heart ! 

O  Stanton,  up  in  Georgia !  O  singer,  strong  and  true ! 
Here's  one  in  Texas  drains  a  bowl  in  hearty  health  to 

you! 
Long  may  you  live  to  bless  us  and  drive  our  woes 

away 
With  songs  that  breathe  the  redolence  and  riotry  of 

May! 


20 


SHORE  LIGHTS. 

As  one,  adrift  on  some  tempestuous  deep. 
Of  friendly  port  or  favoring  gale  denied, 
Where  black  night  rules,  nor  star-gleams  wake  to 
guide. 

And  wind  and  wave  demoniac  revel  keep ; 

As  such  an  one  might  gladly  note  the  sweep 
Of  beacon  light  athwart  the  tossing  tide 
And  feel  within  the  doubt  gates  sundered  wide. 

And  joy  unpent  through  all  the  pulses  leap — 

So  oftentimes  on  Life's  uncertain  main. 

When,   tempest-lashed  and  wrapt  in  rayless  night. 

With  warring  winds  and  hostile  waves  we  cope, 
And,  struggling,  sink — and,  sinking,  strive  again— 
There  burst  like  beacons  on  our  dazzled  sight 

The  lights  that  mark  the  smiling  shores  of  Hope! 


21 


SEEDTIME. 

HASTE  ye,  my  soul,  for  the  sowing- 
Deep  in  the  garden  of  years ; 

Truths  that  may  grant  ye  in  growing- 
Meed  for  the  toil  and  the  tears. 

Long  have  the  furrows  lain  fallow, 
Waiting  the  husbandman's  share  ; 

Haste  to  thy  task,  while  ye  hallow 
All  of  the  plodding-  with  prayer. 

Haste  ye,  my  soul ;  on  the  morrow 
Season  and  sun  may  be  past. 

Haste  ye,  lest  sighing  and  sorrow 
Strangle  the  seed  that  yc  cast. 

Haste,  while  the  green  ways  are  glowing 
Off  with  vain  doublings  and  fears. 

Haste  ye,  my  soul,  for  the  sowing- 
Deep  in  the  garden  of  years. 


22 


AT  HARVEST. 

WHEN  comes  Life's  autumn  time — as  come  it  must, 
Some  not  far-distant  day,  to  you  and  me — 

What  shall  we  tell  the  Landlord  of  our  trust, 
What  shall  we  yield  Him  of  our  husbandry? 

Shall  we  bring  ruddy  vintage,  stores  of  corn, 
Rich  golden  harvests  from  the  yester-lands. 

Or  shriveled  sheaves,  inmixed  with  tare  and  thorn, 
Or  greet  him,  sadder  still,  with  empty  hands? 

Ah  me !  when  comes  Life's  autumn — as  it  must. 
Some  not  far-distant  day,  to  you  and  me — 

What  shall  we  tell  the  Landlord  of  our  trust, 
What  shall  we  yield  Him  of  our  husbandry? 


AFTER  STORM. 

As  some  frail  reed,  that  through  a  night  of  storms 

A  stricken  suppliant  lies, 
Helpless,  submissive,  spent  with  vain  alarms, 
Yet  quickened,  strengthened,  robed  in  fresher  green, 
Lifts  to  the  wind  beneath  the  blue  serene 

Of  cloudless  morning  skies — 

So  souls  that,  stricken  in  the  gloom  of  grief, 

Bow  to  the  storm-swept  sod. 

Chastened  and  cleansed  and  clothed  in  newer  leaf 
Of  hope  and  trust  and  all-abiding  strength, 
From  the  low  earth  may  lift  themselves  at  length 

In  the  clear  light  of  Cod ! 


THE   TRUEST   THANKFULNESS. 

NOR  song,  nor  speech,  may  fittingly  express 

The  soul's  deep  thankfulness ; 
There  is  a  gratitude  which  stands  confessed 
In  lips  slow-trembling,  and  in  heaving  breast, 
Which  speaks,  up-welling  in  the  unbidden  tear ; 
It  is  the  most  sincere ! 


AT  THE  STABLE  DOOR. 

AWED  by  seraphic  strains 
That  stir  and  thrill  the  still  Judean  plains. 
Lured  by  the  luster  of  a  strange,  new  star. 

From  alien  lands  and  far — 

To  this  low  stable  door 

Throng  simple  peasants,  wizards  learned  in  lore 
Rich  gifts  of  frankincense  and  myrrh  they  bring 

To  aid  their  worshiping. 

For  one  rapt  moment's  space 
Their  glances  sweep  the  shining  stable  place, 
Note  the  low  rafters  and  the  littered  stall, 

Then,  dazed  and  blinded,  fall ; 

For,  waking  on  their  sight, 
Has  burst  a  vision  of  celestial  light 
Where  lies,  encradled  in  a  manger  dim, 

The  Babe  of  Bethlehem ! 

A  moment's  space,  then  each 
Is  bowed  in  homage  far  too  deep  for  speech ; 
The  homage,  hollow  words  may  not  express. 

Of  speaking  silentness. 
26 


AT    THE    STABLE    DOOR. 

Little  you  dream  or  know, 
Shepherd  and  sage  in  worship  bended  low, 
What  paths  of  pain  these  baby  feet  must  tread, 

What  crowns  must  deck  its  head ! 

Not  yours  to  pierce  the  rift 
Of  years  where  grim  Golgotha's  crosses  lift, 
To  know  this  Babe  of  Bethlehem  must  be 

The  Christ  of  Calvary  ! 


27 


TO  A  LITTLE  CHILD. 

COULD  1  but  go  before  a  little  way 

Along  the  road  your  tender  feet  must  fare, 
And  put  aside  the  bramble  and  the  tare 

That  wait  to  wound  you  on  a  later  day ; 

Mark  the  low  paths  that,  luring,  lead  astray 
With  sight  made  clear  long  since  in  sterner  air 
Point  out  the  pitfall  and  the  hidden  snare 

That  lurk  to  bring  you  sorrow  and  dismay : 

Could  I  but  go  a  little  way  before — 

Untutored  child  heart !     Trusting  innocence  ! — 
How  gladly  would  I  suffer  for  your  sake 

Old  wounds  reopened  to  the  keen,  quick  core ! 
All-pitying  God !  that  such  soft  feet  should  take 

The  long,  hard  highway  of  Experience ! 


28 


QUATRAINS. 

CONES. 

THE  tree  of  Time  a  pine  is,  green  and  tall, 

Whereto,  like  clustered  cones,  we  cling  and  cleave 
Our  little  season.     Ah,  God  grant  we  leave 

Some  after-breath  of  fragrance  when  we  fall ! 

AT   DUSK. 

O'EK-RIPENED  Day  falls  from  its  fading  husk; 

And  look !  where  Sunset  loosed  her  rosy  bars, 
Deep  in  the  purple  pastures  of  the  dusk 

A  wan  moon-shepherd  leads  the  straggling  stars! 

LOST. 

ACROSS  the  hot  Sahara  of  the  sky 

Long  caravans  of  cloud,  slow-winding,  crawl ; 
Wild  Bedouin  winds  sweep  down  with  sudden  cry, 

And  the  deep  desert  blueness  swallows  all ! 

CHALLENGED. 

PRAY,  spend  thy  scorn,  old  Time,  and  wreak  thy  wrath  ! 

Why  should  I  reck  though  Fame  and  Fortune  flee, 
If  the  blithe  beggar,  Love,  along  Life's  path 

But  choose  to  comrade  me? 
29 


QUATRAINS. 

CANDELABRA. 

To  the  hushed  house  of  dead  Midsummer,  lo ! 

Sandaled  with  silentness,  October  comes 
And  sets  each  dusk-dim  corridor  aglow 

With  candelabra  of  chrysanthemums ! 

ANTLIKE. 

MAN'S  but  a  little  ant,  say  you,  that  crawls 
Down  Time's  hot,  tortuous  highway?  Yea,  in  sooth! 

But  not  for  naught  if,  haply,  he  but  bear 
Some  fallow  field  one  golden  grain  of  truth  ! 

THE  TRUMPETER. 

BLARING  with  bronzed  lips  till  aisle  and  arch 

Of  wood  and  sky  with  sounding  echoes  stir- 
Hark  where,  hard-galloping,  rides  trooper  March, 
The  young  year's  trumpeter ! 

APRIL. 

AND  now  comes  April,  fair  and  fickle  maiden. 
Fit  prototype  of  Life's  vain  hopes  and  fears : 

One  moment  bowed  in  grief  and  sorrow-laden, 
The  next  one  smiling  bravely  through  her  tears ! 


FORGETFULNES3. 

I  PLUNGED  me  deep  within  a  solitude 

Of  gloomy  wood, 
Where  I  might  rid  me  of  the  wild  unrest 

That  clamored  in  my  breast. 

But  ever  keen  remembrance  followed  me 

Relentlessly, 
And  all  the  lisp  of  leaves  and  south  wind's  strain 

Seemed  but  to  mock  my  pain. 

So,  quick  I  turned,  and  sought  with  hasting  feet 

The  surging  street, 
And  there  amid  the  unceasing  strife  and  stress 

I  found  forgetfulness. 


OUT  OF   THE  DUSK. 

OUT  of  the  dusk — a  song, 
A  mellow  cadence,  touched  with  tenderness, 
And  sweet  with  solace  as  the  soft  caress 
Of  mother  lips  that  bowed  them  but  to  bless 

In  twilights  vanished  long. 

Out  of  the  dusk — a  song, 
A  mist  of  melody  more  silver-sweet 
Than  rune  of  rain  in  poppied  fields  of  wheat 
To  one  who,  loitering  with  slow-lagging  feet, 

Halts -in  the  surging  throng. 

Out  of  the  dusk — a  song, 
Wafted  from  unseen  lips,  a  breath  of  peace 
That  brings  the  dim-eyed  dallier  release 
From  thonging  sorrows  and  a  sweet  surcease 

Of  wrath  and  woe  and  wrong. 


A  SMILE  AND  A  SONG. 

GIVE  to  the  world  a  smile.     There  is  enough, 
God  knows,  of  sullen  scowls  and  churlishness ! 

What  if  thy  footsteps  fare  through  highways  rough- 
Can  futile  frowning  make  thy  burdens  less  ? 

Nay,  though  thy  secret  soul  be  sad  the  while, 
Give  to  the  world  a  smile ! 

Give  to  the  world  a  song.     The  very  air 

Seems   charged   with   keen   complainings   and   with 

sighs 
That  are  but  echoings  of  dark  despair. 

What  if  a  surly  sun  forsake  the  skies. 
Or  if  thy  pilgrimage  be  overlong? 
Give  to  the  world  a  song ! 


33 


THEN  AND  NO  IV. 

THE  olden  days 

Were  the  golden  days — 

Aye,  they  were  fair,  I  know- 
But  the  present  days 
May  be  pleasant  days 

If  only  we  make  them  so. 

If  the  heart  be  light, 

All  the  days  are  bright 
As  skies  in  the  blossomy  May; 

If  the  soul  be  rent 

With  a  discontent. 
Why,  all  of  the  days  are  gray. 

A  smile  and  a  song 
As  we  journey  along 

May  brighten  the  way  a  bit. 
For  the  world  is  a  stream 
That  will  gloom  or  gleam 

In  turn  as  we  look  at  it. 

Aye,  the  olden  days 
Were  the  golden  days, 

Freighted  with  joys,  I  know ; 
But  the  present  days 
May  be  pleasant  days 

If  only  we  make  them  so. 
34 


THE  BUBBLE  CHASER. 

To  her  side  one  day  the  mild-eyed  Mother 
Called  her  Best  Beloved,  and  for  his  joyance 
Blew  from  out  a  slender  reed  a  bubble 
Like  a  sphere  of  sheer,  pellucid  silver, 
Shining  with  the  seven  hues  of  heaven, 
Miracles  of  color— rose  of  morning". 
Tawny  tints  of  noonday,  twilight  purples, 
Emerald  glintings  like  the  summer  sea's  breast. 

And  the  Best  Beloved,  with  eyes  enchanted, 
Watched  the  radiant  sphere  go  floating  from  him ; 
Then  with  lips  disparted,  childlike,  eager. 
Started  forth  on  flying  feet  to  follow  : 

Far  and  far  the  burnished  bubble  lured  him  ; 
Onward  still,  and  onward,  ever  onward. 
Near  at  times,  yet,  phantomlike,  eluding 
Trembling,  straining  hands  upraised  to  grasp  it ; 
Onward  still,  and  onward,  till  its  luster, 
Blending  with  the  bending  heaven's  blueness, 
Vanished  from  the  range  of  yearning  vision. 

35 


THE   BUBBLE   CHASER. 

So,  with  eyes  grown  pitiful  with  sorrow. 
And  with  feet  outwearied  from  pursuing, 
Turned  he  then  and  sought  the  mild-eyed  Mother, 
Who,  with  heart  made  tender  by  compassion, 
Loving  arms  outstretched,  and  to  her  bosom 
Strained  the  weeping  child  and  gently  told  him : 
''Know,  my  Best  Beloved,  this  shining  bubble 
Which  afar  on  flying  feet  you  followed 
Countless  others  have  pursued  before  you. 
Sometimes  touching,  never  all-possessing ; 
Keats  and  Poe  and  Shelley,  all  my  children. 
Chased  such  silver  bubbles  and,  despairing, 
Knew  the  glory  of  immortal  longing ! 
'Tis  the  spirit  of  elusive  Beauty, 
Real  in  seeming,  but  as  evanescent 
As  the  rose  tint  in  the  clouds  of  sunset !" 


WHO   DWELLS   WITH   NATURE. 


WHO  DWELLS  WITH  NATURE. 

WHO  dwells  with  Nature,  clasps  her  hand 

In  cordial  comradery, 
Her  best  bestowals  may  command  ; 

No  niggard  hostess  she. 

With  lavish  grace  she  offers  up 
All  wholesome  gifts  and  good ; 

She  bids  him  drain  her  sparkling  cup 
And  share  her  daily  food. 

A  roof  of  blue  she  arches  o'er 

As  shelter  for  his  head ; 
Spreads  for  his  feet  a  fragrant  floor 

With  pine  cones  carpeted. 

She  drapes  his  couch  in  curtains  cool, 

Of  sheer  and  lacey  mist ; 
A  mirror  makes  of  some  still  pool 

By  shifting  shadows  kissed. 

She  wakes  wild  melody  in  sounds 

Of  silver-singing  rills ; 
The  hoarse-mouthed  bay  of  distant  hounds 

At  dawn  among  the  hills. 
39 


WHO  DWELLS   WITH    NATURE. 

Wielding  a  magic  brush,  she  spreads 

Rare  pictures  for  his  eyes. 
And  dazzles  with  warm  golds  and  reds 

Of  Autumn  tapestries. 

She  opens  wide  her  book  of  days, 
A  classic  clasped  with  gold ; 

Creation's  moving  tale  displays. 
And  legends  weird  and  old. 

She  leads  him  to  some  cloistered  shrine, 

Shut  in  from  sordid  gaze, 
Where  deep-toned  organs  of  the  pine 

Chant  solemn  hymns  of  praise. 

And  as  he  bows  in  worship  there. 

She  sets  his  spirit  free 
From  sordid  care,  and  bids  him  share 

Her  sweet  tranquillity. 


40 


CONQUEST. 

SPRING  and  Winter  met  one  day 

Near  the  huddled  hills — 
Scant  his  locks  as  lichens  gray ; 

Spring's,  like  daffodils. 
They  were  known  as  open  foes 

Over  all  the  earth. 
Spring  detested  ice  and  snows ; 

Winter,  blooms  and  mirth. 

Long  his  tense  and  tyrant  clutch 

Prisoned  fen  and  field, 
Long  the  streams  to  bar  his  touch 

Raised  an  icy  shield ; 
Spring,  to  break  their  fetters  free, 

Summoned  all  her  charms. 
All  her  wondrous  witchery 

To  take  the  King  of  Storms. 

"May  I  pass,  kind  sir?''  she  said. 

Beaming,  blossom-wise. 
Up  at  him  with  lips  of  red. 

Eyes  of  April  skies ; 
Winter  wavered,  loath  to  go. 

Smiled  and  stepped  aside, 
Bowed  his  head  and,  bending  low, 

"Certainly!"  he  cried. 


AN  APRIL  LYRIC. 

BURST  of  bud  and  miracle, 

Of  snowy  orchard  blooming; 
Lures  of  laughter  lyrical, 

Flung  from  tinkling  rills; 
Stir  and  swish  of  swallow  wing 

And  purple  lilacs  pluming  ; 
Wake,  my  soul,  for  following — 

Tis  April  on  the  hills ! 


42 


INTER-PINES. 

FAR  from  the  fevered  fret  of  trade  and  town, 

Far  from  the  noontide's  pulsing  hum  and  heat, 
I'ast  stream  and  stile,  up  shaly  slope  and  down, 
A  dim  path  winds 
And,  winding,  finds 
Deep  in  the  pines  a  cloistering  retreat 
Where  ripened  cones  and  needles  crisp  and  brown 
Outspread  a  fragrant  carpet  for  the  feet. 

Like  ancient  monks,  uplifting  priestly  arms 

High  overhead  in  blessings  murmured  low, 
The  pine  trees  stand ;  and  all  life's  vain  alarms. 
Its  wild  unrest 
Of  brain  and  breast, 

Speed  swift  as  blooms  when  winds  of  Autumn  blow, 
And  in  their  stead,  as  silence  after  storms. 

Glides  gentle  Peace  with  noiseless  tread  and  slow. 

The  cravings  keen  for  all  the  vain  may  vaunt. 

The  tense  desires  for  worldly  power  and  place, 
Find  sweet  surcease  within  this  holy  haunt 
Where,  spreading  wings 
From  sordid  things, 

The  soul  mounts  upward  for  a  fleeting  space, 
While  winds  and  pines  lift  grand  cathedral  chaunt, 
And  meets  its  God  and  Maker  face  to  face. 
43 


THE  HILLS  OF  JUNE. 

CRY  truce  in  the  struggle  for  place  and  gain, 

With  its  stress  and  its  din  and  glare ! 
And  it's  off  with  the  pangs  of  a  nameless  pain, 

And  the  gyves  of  a  dull  despair, 
And  it's  out  for  a  day  in  the  ampler  air 

To  the  lilt  of  a  lightsome  tune ; 
O,  it's  hey  and  away  from  the  house  of  Care, 

And  it's  ho  for  the  hills  of  June ! 

When  the  ways  rang  shrill  with  the  wild  refrain 

Of  the  North  wind's  trumpet  blare, 
It  were  well  to  house  from  the  roar  and  rain 

And  the  joys  of  the  field  forswear; 
But  now  when  the  sun  spreads  a  golden  snare, 

And  the  dawn  flings  a  balsamed  boon — 
O,  its  hey  and  away  from  the  house  of  Care, 

And  it's  ho  for  the  hills  of  June ! 

For  a  breath  of  balm  for  the  breast  and  brain. 

Let  the  buoyant  footstep  fare, 
Through    the    meadows    wide    and    the    spangled 

plain, 

By  the  song-sweet  hedge  to  where 
44 


THE  HILLS  OF  JUNE. 

A  dim  path  winds  like  a  spiral  stair 
Up,  up,  where  the  dark  pines  croon ; 

O,  it's  hey  and  away  from  the  house  of  Care, 
And  it's  ho  for  the  hills  of  June ! 

Envoi. 
Have  done  with  the  laurels  that  Fame  may  share, 

Like  youth  they  are  fled  too  soon ; 
O,  it's  hey  and  away  from  the  house  of  Care, 

And  it's  ho  for  the  hills  of  June ! 


A  GARDEN  ROMANCE. 

A  DEWDROP  lay  on  a  leafy  spray 

In  the  rosy  morn  of  a  summer's  day. 

And  the  wee  coquette  with  a  shy  glance  met 
The  flashing  eye  of  the  Day  God,  set 

In  the  heavens  old  like  an  orb  of  gold 
Whose  beaming  burnished  the  blossomed  wold. 

He,  wise  old  beau,  for  an  hour  or  so 
Bethought  to  flirt  with  the  wight  below, 

And  the  court  he  paid  to  the  mist-born  maid 
The  robins  watched  from  the  scented  shade. 

How  the  sun  would  smile  at  the  dew  the  while 
And  her  thoughts  from  earth  to  the  skies  beguile ! 

How  the  dew  would  blink  at  the  sun  and  wink 
And  change  from  opal  and  pearl  to  pink ! 

Till  a  moss-rose  cried,  near  the  dewdrop's  side: 

"False  one.  thou  hadst  promised  to  be  my  bride! 

46 


A  GARDEN   ROMANCE. 

But  the  rose  must  sigh  with  no  dewdrop  nigh, 
And  droop  and  wither  and  fade  and  die!" 

When  the  dewdrop  heard,  quick  her  slight  form 

stirred. 
And  she  sprang  to  his  heart  like  a  frightened  bird ! 

And  when  Ladye  Grace  in  ye  robe  of  lace 
Came  tripping  down  through  the  fragrant  ways, 

She  found — it  is  said — in  the  garden  bed 
A  red,  red  rose  and  a  dewdrop  wed ! 


47 


THE  GOAL. 

WHEN  blue-eyed  Alorn  fares  forth  on  fairy  feet 

From  out  the  envermeiled  east, 
And  chaste-lipped  blossoms  lift  confession  sweet 

To  the  great  sun,  their  priest ; 
While  the  deep  world-heart  throbs  with  waking  bliss 

And  wild  birds  sing,  and  singing,  soar  the  blue — 
Ever  my  songs  upon  the  day's  first  kiss 

Go  speeding,  love,  to  you ! 

Or  when,  betimes,  in  gilded  halls  of  noon 

The  day  sits  throned  in  state 
While  amorous  winds  to  fragrant  fields  of  June 

Breathe  vows  inviolate  ; 
When  the  slow  hours  in  languid  currents  glide 

Like    soundless    streams    with    sungleams    thridded 

through — 
Then  all  my  dreams  upon  the  drowsy  tide 

Go  drifting,  dear,  to  you ! 

And  when  Eve  stands  upon  the  blue  day's  brim 

Where  Night's  dim  courtiers  bow, 
Thronging  with  dream-shod  feet  to  diadem 

With  stars  her  dusky  brow ; 
48 


THE     GOAL. 

When  from  the  heavens  fades  the  last  faint  Hush 
And  distant  tinklings  drown  in  seas  of  dew— 

My  thoughts  go  winging  through  the  scented  hush 
Always,  my  sweet,  to  you  ! 

Always  to  you,  for  you,  incarnate,  hold 

Morn's  virgin  charms,  and  weave 
With  all  the  Moontide's  regal  heart  of  gold 

The  tawny  tints  of  Eve ; 
Always  to  you !     In  Daytime's  transient  gleam 

Or  when  Night  stalks  with  somber  retinue 
The  goal  and  theme  of  all  my  song  and  dream 

Shall  ever,  dear,  be  you ! 


49 


AT  A   MOCKBIRD   MATINEE. 

EVER  spend  an  afternoon 
Of  a  day  in  jocund  June 
At  a  mockbird  matinee? 
Never  ?     Honest  ?     Well-a-day ! 
Where've  you  lived  at,  anyway? 
Not  a  quicker  cure  for  care 
Manufactured  anywhere ; 
Not  a  better  balm  for  blues ; 
Not  a  dull  soul  but  will  lose 
All  its  sluggishness,  T  say, 
At  a  mockbird  matinee! 
Not  a  hint  of  trade  or  town 
In  the  path  one  loiters  down ; 
Not  a  thought  of  shops  or  desks 
Where  the  sun  weaves  arabesques, 
Fragile-fair  and  fairy-hued, 
In  the  wood's  deep  solitude; 
Not  a  thing  but  God's  pure  air, 
Shine  and  shadow  everywhere ! 
Pick  yourself  a  mossy  seat 
In  some  dim  and  cool  retreat, 
And  with  sighs  of  deep  content 
50 


AT    A    MOCKBiKD   MATINEE. 

Settle  down  all  indolent 

With  your  head  against  the  trunk 

Of  some  hoary  forest  monk ; 

Bare  your  forehead  while  the  breeze 

Plies  its  gentle  ministries : 

Close  your  eyes  in  rapture  deep, 

Feel  yourself  grow  sleepy — sleep — 

Then  a-sudden— hist !  a  stir 

From  some  hidden  chorister. 

As  along  a  branching  spray 

Where  the  sunbeams  plash  and  play 

Fares  he  forth  in  modest  coat, 

Flinging  from  his  throbbing  throat 

Clear  cascades  of  tinkling  song. 

Silver-sweet  and  subtle-strong ; 

Strains  of  soul-compelling  sound, 

Streams  of  symphony  unbound, 

Lures  of  lyric  riotry, 

Miracles  of  melody, 

Soft  at  times,  and  sweet  and  low, 

As  the  slow  and  measured  flow 

Of  some  placid  river  tide 

Down  through  meadows  lush  and  wide ; 

Or  from  breast  aflame,  afire, 

Wild  with  passion,  hot  desire, 

5* 


AT   A    MOCKBIRD   MAT] NEK. 

High  and  high  and  high  and  higher 
Leap  the  frantic  notes  until 
Fen  and  forest,  haunt  and  hill, 
Pulse  and  pant  and  throb  and  thrill. 
Overawed  and  overcome 
By  the  keen  delirium ! 

Then  as  if  such  riotings 
Had  consumed  symphonic  springs. 
For  a  solemn  space,  a  hush ! 
But  once  more  a  rhythmic  gush 
Flashing  downward  fleet  and  free. 
Mad  with  mirthful  minstrelsy; 
Ravishing  the  raptured  ear 
With  a  cadence  crystal-clear 
As  the  lisp  of  limpid  rain 
In  autumnal  fields  of  grain ; 
Stilling  spirit  strife  and  stress 
With  a  rune  of  restfulness ; 
Purging  blood  and  breast  and  brain 
Of  their  poignant  pangs  of  pain  ; 
Rousing  noble  aims  and  true 
In  the  slumbrous  soul  of  you! 

Ah !  a  man  can  drive  away 
Care  and  sorrow  any  day 
At  a  mockbird  matinee ! 
52 


TO  A  BLASTED  PINE. 

STOUT  yeoman  of  the  wood !     Plebeian  pine ! 

Good  honest  friend  of  mine, 

Fn  cordial  fellowship  I  lift  my  hand 

To  meet  your  rugged  clasp. 

I  do  not  ask  what  scurvy  trick  of  wind, 
What  weight  of  storm  or  spite  of  summer  suns, 
What  sustenance  of  mother  soil  denied, 
Made  thee  low-statured,  stunted,  dwarfed  of  mien. 
Whilst  thy  patrician  brother  rears  his  head 
High  o'er  his  fellows,  lordliest  of  the  wood. 
And  flaunts  his  princely  purple  in  the  sun ! 

Nor  do  I  care  to  know 

That  thou  canst  boast  as  proud  a  sire  as  he- 
Some  honored  patriarch  of  the  ancient  wood, 

Whose  sturdy  sap 

Courses  through  every  fiber  of  thy  frame — 
For  in  the  sight 

Of  that  clear-seeing  and  impartial  Eye 
Which  measures  all  things  under  sky  or  roof, 
53 


TO  A  BLASTED  PINE. 

Trees  and  their  little  earthborn  cousins,  men, 
By  service,  not  by  stature,  thou  art  thrice 
More  tall  than  thy  patrician  brother  pine 
Who  flaunts  his  princely  purple  in  the  sun  ! 

For  thou,  near  earth,  dost  spread  a  denser  shade 
Where  weary  pilgrims  and  sun-stricken  kinc 
May  rest  them  from  the  burning  heat  of  noon  ; 
And,  bent  to  bear  the  brunt  of  wintry  blasts. 
Dost  grant  a  safer  shelter  to  the  birds, 
The  little  shivering  orphans  of  the  air ; 
Dost  hold  as  much  of  healing  in  thy  heart, 
And  fling  as  fair  a  fruitage  on  the  sward ! 

Would  1  might  claim  within  my  narrow  sphere 
Of  daily  usefulness  a  service  rare 
As  thou  in  thine,  stout  yeoman  of  the  wood, 
Plebeian  pine !     Good  honest  friend  of  mine ! 


54 


THE  THUNDERSTORM. 

LIKE  hostile  armies  massing  for  the  fray, 

Somber  and  dark,  the  westering  storm  clouds  swarm 
And  line  on  line  in  threatening  array. 

Low-muttering,  their  grim  battalions  form. 
Then,  like  to  wrath-dumb  furies,  black  and  still, 

They  crouch  one  death-tense  space  with  bated  breath 
And  hurl  them  headlong  from  their  highmost  hill 

To  grapple  in  the  fearful  lists  of  death ! 
Hark !  how  their  hoarse  artillery  rends  the  air 

With  peal  on  peal  and  deafening  crash  on  crash ! 
Hark !  how  their  shrill-lipped  battle  trumpets  blare ! 

Look !  where  their  sheathless  lightning-sabers  flash ! 
Then  faint,  then  fierce,  and  fiercer  yet  again — 
Listen  !  a  sweeping  enfilade  of  rain  ! 


55 


A  CROSSROADS  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

Two  country  roadways  writhe  and  wind 

Like  lizards  lithe  and  lazy 
Down  shaly  hillsides,  purple-pined. 

And  clearings  dim  and  hazy. 
Past  shallow  fords  where  brooks  that  run 

Through  shoals  of  painted  pebbles 
Blur  robin  songs  with  antiphon 

Of  tuneful  trills  and  trebles, 
Till  deep  within  the  woodland's  dusk, 

As  if  to  shun  detection, 
They  join  and  pass  with  meeting  brusque 

To  form  an  intersection. 

There,  stained  by  storm  and  Summer's  frown 

And  warped  by  Winter's  fingers, 
Dingy  and  dark  and  bare  and  brown, 

A  country  schoolhouse  lingers, 
Just  as  it  did  when,  days  agone, 

Through  shiny,  steel-rimmed  glasses, 
Professor  Biglow  beamed  upon 

The  crossroads  lads  and  lasses, 
Who  dulled  the  sweets  of  simple  lives 

Above  their  blue-backed  "spellers," 
Droning  like  bees  in  orchard  hives 

When  June  the  apple  mellows. 
56 


A    CROSSROADS    SCHOOL  HOUSE. 

These  aisles  which  now  no  note  disturbs 

Once  rang  with  struggling  stammers 
Of  youth  and  maid  o'er  nouns  and  verbs 

Of  Smith's  and  Butler's  grammars, 
Or  haply  caught  the  teacher's  zest 

Of  sudden  satisfaction 
When  some  apt  pupil  led  the  rest 

And  multiplied  a  fraction ; 
And  oft  on  Fridays  heard  the  calls 

For  essay,  song,  and  story, 
While  loud-lunged  bumpkins  stormed  the  walls 

With  rustic  oratory. 

Or  caught,  perchance,  an  exchange  fleet 

Of  glances  laughter-laden 
When  book  or  flower  from  seat  to  seat 

Passed  to  some  anxious  maiden. 
At  times,  along  the  drowsy  ranks, 

There  swept  a  chorused  giggle 
When  some  bold  youngster,  caught  at  pranks. 

Would  squirm  and  writhe  and  wriggle 
Within  the  master's  brawny  grasp, 

The  while  with  footsteps  jogging 
He  circled  round  with  groan  and  gasp 

Beneath  a  storm  of  flogging. 

57 


A     CROSSROADS     SCHOOLHOUSE. 

Ah,  me !  more  fleet  than  rose  leaves  blown 

The  years  fly  fast  and  faster ! 
Full  many  a  spring  have  daisies  grown 

Above  the  kind  old  master ; 
While  we,  who,  struggling,  strove  to  learn 

Beneath  his  admonition, 
Have  long  since  grappled  lessons  stern 

Of  Life's  severe  tuition ; 
And  some  have  caused  strong  hearts  to  thrill 

With  eloquence  and  beauty. 
While  some,  unknown,  are  greater  still 

Through  simple  lives  of  duty. 

And  Time  on  many  a  joyous  brow 

Has  set  his  seal  of  sadness ; 
And  many  a  heart  is  careworn  now 

That  once  brimmed  full  of  gladness ; 
Yet,  stained  by  storm  and  Summer's  frown 

And  warped  by  Winter's  fingers, 
Dingy  and  dark  and  bare  and  brown. 

A  country  schoolhouse  lingers 
Just  as  it  did  when,  days  agone, 

Through  shiny,  steel-rimmed  glasses, 
Professor  Biglow  beamed  upon 

The  crossroads  lads  and  lasses. 

58 


THE  HUSH  AT  HARVEST. 

How  speaking  seems  this  hush  on  wood  and  field ! 

As  if  the  year,  all  suddenly  grown  mute 
Before  such  opulence  of  harvest  yield, 

Gold-glinting    sheaves,    and    orchards    bowed    with 
fruit, 

Had  bared  his  head,  and  for  a  moment's  space, 
From  deeps  of  soul  surcharged  with  gratitude. 

Upbreathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  and  praise 
I  Into  the  Giver  of  all  grace  and  good ! 


59 


THE    WOOD   GYPSY. 

IN  scarlet  skirt  and  bodice  gay, 

A  bold-lipped,  tawny  thing, 
Comes  brown  October  down  the  wood, 

A  gypsy  wandering. 

Her  light  limbs  shame  the  leopard's  lithe 

Abandonment  of  grace, 
Her  dark  eyes  prison  all  the  old 

Wild  passion  of  her  race. 

Crooning,  she  lifts  her  voice  in  song, 
Some  strain  of  weird  romance, 

And,  timed  to  clashing  tambour  bells, 
Whirls  in  a  wanton  dance. 

And  ere  the  cadence  dies  away 

In  echoes  wild  and  sweet, 
The  oaks  and  maples  shower  gold 

About  her  twinkling  feet! 


60 


A  HEALTH  TO  OCTOBER 

HERE'S  a  health  to  October,  dream-sandaled  October. 
Queen  of  the  quiet  lands,  dusk-eyed  and  sober — 
Long  be  the  reign  of  her,  gladsome  and  good  i 
The  fay  folk  have  kept  her 
A  golden-rod  scepter, 
Have  raised  her  a  shrine  in  a  still  solitude, 
Where  crisp,  crinkled  dead  leaves,  gold-dappled  and 
red  leaves. 

Mellowly, 
Yellowly, 
Flame  in  the  wood ! 

Long  stilled  is  the  singing,  the  silvery  singing 
Of  brooks  that  down  June-lands  tripped  blithely,  out- 
flinging 

Notes  soft  as  the  chimes  of  a  clear-cadenced  bell : 
The  quail's  shrill  insistence 
Has  died  in  the  distance ; 
Sabbatical  silence  wraps  all  in  its  spell, 
Save  when  through  the  hushes  some  brown-throated 
thrush's 

Lyrical 
Miracle 

Drifts  from  the  dell. 
61 


A   HEALTH    TO  OCTOBER. 

Each  dawning  of  day  grants  a  boon  of  wild  fragrance, 

Borne  in  by  light-hearted,  light-footed  wind-vagrants 

From  haunts  where  the  sumac  and  wood-aster  gleam  ; 

The  morning  light  lusters 

The  pendant  grape  clusters. 

Empurpling  the  glens  by  the  dim-shadowed  stream ; 
Its  light  kisses  strike  some  to  soft  shining,  like  some 
Shimmery 
Memory 
Burning  in  dreams. 

So,  a  health  to  October,  dream-sandaled  October, 
Queen  of  the  quiet  lands,  dusk-eyed  and  sober, 
Long  be  the  reign  of  her,  gladsome  and  good, 
And  dark  days  not  seek  her ! 
Up,  up  with  a  beaker ! 
A  health  to  October — I  pledge  her  again ! 
A  beaker  of  darkling,  light-beaded  and  sparkling 
Muscadine 
Dusky  wine- 
Bright  to  her  reign ! 


62 


AND  ONE  HAD  LOVE. 


AND  ONE  HAD  LOVE. 

ONE  man  had  riches  for  his  gift,  and  knew 

The  emptiness  thereof ; 
Another,  where  Fame's  topmost  summits  lift 

All  pigmy  peaks  above, 
Felt  the  keen  pangs  of  lofty  loneliness ; 

And  one  had  love  ! 

Down  in  the  lowly  valley  paths  of  life 

His  years  were  spent 
Where,  far  removed  from  moiling  din  and  strife. 

Brook-song  and  bird-song  blent 
Babbled  of  quiet  things,  of  restful  peace 

And  deep  content. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  his  cup  of  days 

Ineffably  more  sweet 
Than  e'er  he  knew  who  in  the  giddy  maze 

Of  fortune  set  his  feet 
Or  quaffed  Fame's  goblet,  wreathed  with  rue  and  bays. 

And  found  it  incomplete ! 


LOVE'S  HOUR. 

THIS  is  love's  hour,  sweetheart — mine  and  yours! — 
This  fleeting  hour  the  dreamer's  soul  deems  best 

Of  deepening  dusk-time,  when  the  sunset  pours 
A  warm  cascade  of  color  down  the  west, 

And  tinkling  strains  of  twilight  troubadours 
Float  from  the  poplar's  crest. 

This  is  love's  hour,  sweetheart — gracious  gift ! 

When,  hand  in  hand,  alone,  'tis  ours  to  go 
Down  purpling  paths  where  white-lipped  roses  lift 

Their  light-blown  kisses  in  the  starry  glow, 
And  o'er  the  sward  the  locust  blossoms  drift 

As  soundlessly  as  snow ! 

The  clashings  keen,  the  clamors  that  infest 
The  noon-wrapped  city  and  its  clanging  mart. 

Subdued  to  silence  all.  have  sunk  to  rest ; 

No  sounds  discordant  from  the  marshes  start ; 

This  is  the  hour  the  dreamer's  soul  deems  best — 
This  is  love's  hour,  sweetheart ! 


66 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 

FAR  in  the  gloom-wrapt  wilderness. 

Where  crooning  pine  trees  wave. 
The  wild  winds  wail  a  requiem 

Above  a  soldier's  grave ; 
No  gleaming  shaft  uprears  its  head 

To  mark  the  nameless  tomb. 
No  comrades  come  with  martial  tread 

To  deck  the  spot  with  bloom. 

Yet  ever  when  the  fields  are  clothed 

In  richest  hues  of  May, 
One  woman  holds  within  her  heart 

A  lone  Memorial  Day : 
And  on  that  distant,  unmarked  grave 

In  somber  shadows  set, 
She  lays  a  wreath  of  fadeless  love 

And  garlands  of  regret. 


BLOSSOMS  OF  MAY. 

BLOSSOMS  of  May  at  your  feet,  my  sweet, 

Dew-dappled  blossoms  of  May; 
Would  that  the  lips  of  them,  sweet,  might  repeat 

All  I  am  yearning  to  say ! 
Yearning  to  say  of  a  heart  that  is  true. 
True  unto  you  as  the  dawn  to  the  dew ; 
Ah,  could  they  whisper  Love's  secret  to  you. 
Then  might  I  treasure  them  aye  and  for  aye, 
Redolent,  meadow-lent  blossoms  of  May ! 

Blossoms  of  Ma)'  at  your  feet,  my  sweet. 

Wind-rumpled  blossoms  of  May ; 
Look  how  I  pluck  them  and  lift  them  to  meet 

Smiles  that  are  sunny  as  day ! 
Take  them  for  pledge  of  a  heart  that  is  true. 
True  unto  you  as  the  dawn  to  the  dew. 
Sweet,  let  them  whisper  my  secret  to  you, 
These  were  Love's  messengers  ever  and  aye, 
Dutiful,  beautiful  blossoms  of  May! 


68 


CASTLE  AND  CABIN. 

I. 

A  MELLOWED  light  through  stained-glass  windows  falls 
On  marble  stairways  and  on  stately  halls. 
With  old  rare  portraits  on  the  frescoed  walls ; 
But  silence  reigns  and  sadness  and  a  dearth 
Of  woman's  laughter  and  of  childish  mirth. 

When  Loves  a  stranger,  what's  a  palace  worth? 

II. 

A  low-roofed  cabin  and  a  rude-built  floor, 
Pink-petaled  roses  romping  round  the  door. 
And  God's  unfettered  sunlight  streaming  o'er ; 
The  happy  housewife  at  her  sewing  sings, 
The  vine-clad  porch  with  baby  laughter  rings. 

With  Love  for  guest,  pray,  who  would  sup  with  kings  ? 


69 


SONG  OF  A  SUMMER'S  DAY. 

O,  IT'S  gold  of  the  meadows  and  blue  of  the  sky- 
Was  ever  a  June  day  rarer. 

With  a  breath  of  the  pines  from  the  purple  inclines 
And  the  breeze  for  a  balsam  bearer? 

O,  it's  gold  of  the  meadows  and  blue  of  the  sky- 
Was  ever  a  June  day  rarer  ? 

O,  it's  gold  of  your  tresses  and  blue  of  your  eye. 

Was  ever  a  charm  denied  you? 
And  was  ever  a  bliss  that  is  equal  to  this 

Out  here  in  the  fields  beside  you  ? 
O,  it's  gold  of  your  tresses  and  blue  of  your  eye, 

Was  ever  a  charm  denied  vou? 


70 


CARITA. 

Do  you  ever  dream,  Carita,  of  a  twilight  long  ago, 
When  the  stars  rained  silver  splendor  from  the  skies 
of  Mexico? 

When  the  moonbeams  on  the  plaza  traced  a  shimmer 
ing  brocade, 

And  the  fountain's  tinkling  tumult  seemed  a  rippling 
serenade  ? 

When  the  velvet-petaled  pansies,  lifting  light  lips  in 

the  gloom. 
Breathed    their    yearning    for    the    night-winds    in    a 

passion  of  perfume? 

When  in  soft  cascades  of  cadence  from  a  garden  dim 

and  far 
Came  the   mournful   mellow   music   of   a   murmurous 

guitar  ? 

Years  have  flown  since  then,  Carita,  fleet  as  orchard 

blooms  in  May, 
But   the  hour   that   fills   my   dreaming — was   it   only 

yesterday  ? 


CARITA. 


Stood  we  two  a  space  in  silence  while  the  southern  sun 

slipped  down, 
And  the  gray  dove.  Dusk,  with  brooding  pinions  wrapt 

the  little  town. 


Then  you  raised  your  tender  glances,  darkly,  dreamily 

to  mine, 
And   my  pulses   clashed   like   cymbals   in   a   rhapsody 

divine. 


And  the  pent-up  fires  of  longing  burst  their  prison's 

weak  control, 
And  in  wild  hot  words  came  leaping  madly  from  my 

burning  soul ; 

Wild  hot  words  that  told  of  passion  hitherto  but  half- 
expressed  ; 

And  I  caught  you  close,  Carita,  clasped  you,  strained 
you,  to  my  breast. 


While  the  twilight-purpled  heavens  reeled  around  us 

as  we  stood, 
And  a  tide  of  bliss  swept  surging  through  the  currents 

of  our  blood ! 

72 


CARITA. 

And  I  spent  my  soul  in  kisses,  crushed  upon  your  scar 
let  mouth ! 

0  Carita!      Senorita!      Dusk-eyed    daughter    of    the 
South ! 

It  was  well  that  Fate  should  part  us ;  it  was  well  my 

path  should  lead 
Back  to  slopes  of  high  endeavor — nay,  and  was  it  well. 

indeed  ? 

You  were  of  a  tropic  people,  steeped  in  roses  and  ro 
mance, 
Lovers  of  the  gay  fiesta,  music,  and  the  mazy  dance ! 

1  was  from  a  northern  country,  scion  of  that  colder 
race 

Who  have  missed  the  most  of  living  in  their  foolish 
phantom-chase ! 

You   have    wed   some   swarthy    Southron ;   long   have 

learned  his  every  wrhim, 
Rolled  cigarros,  poured  the  mescal,  sung  the  Southern 

songs  for  him ; 

I  have  fought  my  fight  and  triumphed :  all  the  world 

repeats  my  name ; 
But  I  prize  one  hour  of  loving  more  than  fifty  years 

of  fame ! 

73 


CARITA. 

It  was  but  a  summer  madness  that  possessed  me,  men 

will  hold, 
That  the  mellow  moon  bewitched  me  with  its  wizardry 

of  gold. 

As  they  will !  But  oft,  when  wearied  of  the  world,  I 
close  my  eyes, 

And  in  dreams  drift  back  where  stars  rain  silver  splen 
dor  from  the  skies, 

And  I  clasp  you  close.  Carita,  while  each  vibrant  pulse 

is  thrilled 
With  a  low  and  mournful  cadence  that  shall  nevermore 

be  stilled. 


74 


THE  CONQUEROR. 

E  built  about  his  heart  a  mighty  wall. 
Thick-moated,  bastioned,  ample-based,  and  tall. 

And  laughed  secure  at  Love's  first  bugle-blast ; 
Scoffed  at  the  next ;  but  at  the  third  and  last 

The  thick  wall  trembled,  crumbled,  crashed,  and  fell 
Love  leaped  the  breach  and  stormed  the  citadel! 


75 


ONE  GOLDEN  DAY. 

DEEP  in  her  casket  of  old  treasured  things 
September  hoards  for  us  one  golden  day ! 

Ah  me !  how  joy  made  murmurous  the  way 

And  young  Love  lured  us  on  with  shining  wings ! 

A  day  to  dream  of !     What  if  dreaming  brings 
No  shimmer  of  lost  other  days  ?     For  aye 

Deep  in  her  casket  of  old  treasured  things 
September  hoards  for  us  one  golden  day ! 

What  though  the  swarming  years  with  waspish  stings 
Have  brought  us  smarting  sorrows?   Though  astray 

Youth's  rosy  feet  forsook  our  wanderings? 
Not  all  is  lost,  for  smiling,  we  can  say : 

"Deep  in  her  casket  of  old  treasured  things 
September  hoards  for  us  one  golden  day !" 


76 


W HE  RE  LOVE  HOLDS  SWAY. 

'Tis  always  summer  where  Love  holds  sway. 
Though  skies  be  glooming"  and  clouds  hang  gray ; 

For  a  glint  of  June 

Lights  a  wintry  noon 
If  Love  be  lord  in  the  heart,  I  say ! 

'Tis  always  summer  where  Love  holds  sway 
Though  sad  rains  croon  down  the  desolate  day ; 

Though  a  wild  wind  shrills 

Through  the  haunted  hills 
December  harbors  a  glimpse  of  May ! 

'Tis  always  summer  where  Love  holds  sway. 
Glad  hearts  heed  not  what  the  wind-lips  say. 

For  if  Love  be  king 

They  are  like  to  sing 
With  a  rollicking  lilt  in  the  roundelay ! 


77 


BURN  AS  NOCHES,  SENORITA. 

SLOWLY  from  the  southern  sky 
All  the  silver  stars  arc  fading : 

Tremulously  drift  and  die 
Sounds  of  distant  serenading- ; 

Yearning  moon  and  sighing  sea. 

Breast  to  breast,  impassionedly. 

Cling  in  close  farewell :  ah  me ! 

Moon  and  sea  part;  sweet,  must  we? 
THienas  noches.   Senorita! 

Wooing  night-winds  long  have  left 

Pink-lipped  petals  spent  with  kisses 
Homing  fireflies  have  reft 

Oleander  hearts  of  blisses  : 
Swiftly  down  the  garden  close. 
Like  a  fragrant  whisper,  goes 
White  moth  lover  from  his  rose : 
Rose-queen  regnant !     Adios  ! 

Ruenas  noches,   Senorita ! 


TO  A  RED-HAIRED  MAIDEN. 

DECOROUS  damsel !     Pink  of  paragons ! 

I  sing  the  glory  of  thy  tawny  tresses 

Blown  by  a  wild  wind's  wantoning  caresses 
About  thy  brow  in  arabesques  of  bronze ! 
Say,  did  the  garish  flame  of  wintry  dawns 

Stream  on  thy  head  from  the  sky's  far  recesses? 

Didst  filch  thy  fire  from  autumn  wildernesses 
Or  ruddy  splendor  from  envermeiled  lawns? 

I  know  but  this :  that  it  accentuates 

Thy  blue-veined  temples'  white  transparency 

And  frames  thy  face — a  lily,  snowy  fair : 
But  ah !  that  the  inexorable  Fates 

In  Freedom's  noon  should  thus  imprison  me 
And  bind  me  captive  with  a  strand  of  hair ! 


79 


AN  AUTUMN  LURE. 

A  LUKE  from  the  lands  of  autumn 

And  a  prospect  rare  unfolds 
Of  the  dusky  wine  of  the  muscadine 

And  the  maple's  flaunting  gold ; 
A  lure  from  the  lands  of  autumn, 

And  who  could  such  lure  withstand? 
Through  the  keen,  crisp  air  let  us  blithely  fare- 

Carissima,  your  hand ! 

For  out  where  the  sumacs  beckon 

With  beacons  that  glimmer  red, 
And  a  murmurous  music  wakens 

In  the  pine  leaves  overhead, 
Comes  a  stir  to  the  vibrant  heart-strings 

While  the  soul  from  its  care  leash  slips, 
And  your  eyes  seek  mine  with  a  warmth  divine- 

Carissima.  your  lips ! 


80 


AN  OCTOBER  SONG. 

WHEN  October  flings  her  banners 

Over  all  the  russet  hills 
And  the  thrush-choirs  lift  hosannas 

In  a  thousand  tuneful  trills, 
When  the  summer-haunted  heather 

Swims  in  mellow,  yellow  haze. 
Let  us  wander,  love,  together 

Through  the  golden  autumn  ways ! 

Let  us  take  the  paths  that  bring  us 

Where  the  sunlight  gilds  the  sod, 
And  the  bandit  breezes  fling  us 

Fragrances  of  golden-rod ; 
Let  us  breathe  the  old,  sweet  story 

Where  the  sumac  shimmers  red 
And  the  maple  leaves,  in  glory 

Flaming,  flutter  overhead. 

Let  us  pray  when  Life's  October 

Comes  to  dim  the  summer  flowers, 
Waking  thoughts  half  bright,  half  sober 

Deep  within  this  soul  of  ours, 
That  it  brings  Hope's  sun,  dispersing 

Cares  that  may  encloud  the  land, 
That  it  find  us,  love,  traversing 

Sunset  meadows,  hand  in  hand ! 
81 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY. 

WITHIN  a  book  of  Browning's,  where  he  weaves 
Symphonic  sunshine  for  our  winter's  gray, 

I  found,  close-pressed  between  the  songful  leaves, 
A  rose  of  yesterday. 

Time's  thievish  touch  has  robbed  it  of  its  scent, 
No  mid-year  luster  lingers  in  its  leaves : 

And  yet  to  me  'tis  richly  redolent 
Of  bygone  summer  eves. 

The  moonlit  glamours  of  a  night  in  June 
Stream,  as  I  dream,  about  me  mellowly. 

The  lisp  of  leaves,  the  cricket's  low  bassoon, 
Waken  again  for  me. 

Just  for  one  fleeting  space  I  catch  the  gleam 
Of  soulful  glances,  surf  of  billowy  lace, 

Of  locks,  cascading  down  an  auric  stream, 
About  a  flowerlike  face. 

A  flowerlike  face,  a  lily  glorified 

With  Love's  impassioned  pureness,  strangely  sweet 
And  once  again  my  soul,  a  pulsing  tide, 

Lies,  throbbing,  at  her  feet. 
82 


A    ROSE    OF    YESTERDAY. 


Trembling',  from  oft"  her  bosom's  heaving  snows, 
She  plucks  one  rosebud,  wet  with  twilight  dew : 

"Know,  love" — to  me — "that  with  this  summer  rose 
I  cfive  mv  heart  to  vou !" 


Ah,  me!  ah,  me!  that  all  Youth's  golden  charms 
Are  for  one  joyous  June  decreed  to  last ! 

That  I  should  reach  outstretched,  imploring  arms 
To  a  relentless  past ! 

( if  me  with  their  blossoms  are  the  days  that  were, 
About  me  falls  December's  gloom  and  gray ; 

And  in  my  hand  one  lone  remembrancer, 
A  rose  of  yesterday. 


A  LOVER'S  QUESTION. 

You  plucked  a  purple  pansy  from  its  bed 

And  pressed  its  perfumed  petals  to  your  lips. 
And  then  with  rosy,  ruthless  ringer  tips 
You  tore  it  into  fragments,  shred  by  shred. 
And  flung  it  from  you,  odorless  and  dead. 

Pray,  if  Love's  flower  were  yours  to  pluck,  perchance. 
Would  you  uplift  it  for  a  space  and  press 
Its  petals  to  your  lips  in  brief  caress, 

Then  fling  it  down  in  sudden  petulance 

As  if  no  longer  worthy  of  your  glance? 


A  DREAM  L\  THE  DUSK. 

OFTTIMES,  outworn  with  warring  in  this  strife 
That  men  call  Life. 

This  hotly  raging  fever  of  unrest 
At  battle  in  my  breast, 

When  the  keen  clash  of  day,  its  clamors  rude, 
Sink,  half  subdued. 

Dulled  to  a  low  and  muffled  monotone, 
1  dream  alone 

While  Twilight's  fingers  shatter  one  by  one 
The  roses  of  the  sun, 

And  lightly  over  purpling  copse  and  hill 
The  fading  petals  spill ; 

And  truant  thought  on  Hermes'  sandals  speeds 
As  Memory  leads 

Where  snowy  dogwoods  star  the  dusky  shades 
Of  tranquil  glades, 

85 


A    DREAM     IN    THE    DUSK. 

And  shy,  brown-dimpled  meadow  brooks  trip  fleet 
On  silver  feet. 

Past  league  on  sunny  league — till  Fancy  sees, 
Shut  in  with  trees, 

Green-girdled  by  a  dim-aisled  garden  place 
Whose  shadows  race 

Where  slim  crape  myrtles  strew  the  sward  below 
With  blossomed  snow. 

And  brown  bees  balance  on  light  lily  stalks 
Beside  the  walks, 

A  quiet  Southern  country  seat,  that  stands 
As  if  with  hands 

Outstretching  welcome  to  each  wayworn  guest. 
Bidding  him  pause  and  rest. 

All  things  about  the  place  bespeak  repose. 
Broad  porticoes. 

White,  ample  wings,  wide  hallways,  cool  and  clean. 
And  shutters  green. 
86 


A    DREAM    IN    THE    DUSK. 

The  dawnlight  smites  the  rooftree  as  of  old 
With  shafts  of  gold ; 

At  noon  from  beds  of  sweet,  old-fashioned  pinks 
The  cricket  clinks ; 

The  far,  faint  flutings  of  the  mocking  bird 
At  dusk  are  heard, 

When  through  the  gloom  each  swaying  jasmine  seems 
A  star  in  dreams. 

Twined  to  the  trellis  honeysuckles  swing. 
And  coil  and  cling, 

Flinging  thick  shadows  on  the  hall  below. 
Where  long  ago. 

Within  a  quaint-carved  armchair,  used  to  sit, 
And  rock  and  knit, 

A  wee  old  woman  with  soft  locks  of  snow 
And  smiles,  I  know, 

Such  as  the  saints  must  wear  in  Paradise ; 
Her  gentle  eyes 

87 


A    DREAM    IN    THE    DUSK. 


Beaming  fond  blessings  on  the  urchins  gay, 
Who  romped  at  play 

Down  the  dim  pathways  of  the  gardenside, 
All  happy- eyed, 

Routing  with  upraised  hands  and  sudden  cries 
The  dappled  butterflies ; 

Seeking  the  swallow's  fragile  house  of  leaves 
Beneath  the  eaves ; 

Chasing  the  lizard  to  his  cell  of  stone, 
Mocking  the  bumble's  drone  : 

Finding  fresh  pastime  for  each  restless  mood 
Of  youngsterhood. 

Would  God  that  feet,  grown  older  now,  might  press 
Those  paths  of  pleasantness 

That  once  they  knew  ere.  truantly,  they  turned 
Worldward  and  learned 

How  lying  are  the  luring  lips  that  call, 
How  poor  and  small 
88 


A    DREAM     IN    THE    DUSK. 

The  little  laurels  that  Life's  battlefield 
At  last  may  yield ! 

Would  God  that  ears,  sore-sickened  of  the  blare 
And  tumult,  where, 

'Neath  clacking  wheels  of  Commerce,  whirring  round, 
Men's  souls  are  ground 

To  golden  powder  for  the  price  of  bread ; 
Where  Truth  seems  dead, 

Sincerity  a  shadow,  simple  Faith 
A  formless  wraith — 

Might  catch  the  changing  cadence  of  the  pines 
On  far  inclines, 

The  quail's  shrill  pipe  at  dawn ;  might  list  again 
The  croon  of  rain 

In  autumn  twilights,  and  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  tinkling  sleet 

Clink  on  the  pane,  while  up  the  chimney  wide 
A  ruddy  tide 

89 


A    DREAM     IN    THE    DUSK. 

Of  flame  sweeps  surging,  and  each  pulse  is  thrilled 
At  sound  of  voices  stilled ! 

Would  God  that  eyes,  which  latterly  have  known 
But  streets  of  stone, 

Might  glimpse  the  quiet  beauty  of  some  wood's 
Deep  solitudes. 

The  changing  hues  of  summer  dusks  and  dawns  ; 
Star-lighted  lawns : 

Mad  miracles  of  color  springtime  throws 
Athwart  an  orchard  close ! 

That  sordid  souls,  forgetting  place  or  pelf, 
Stripped  bare  of  self, 

In  Heaven's  all-cleansing  sunlight  purged  again 
Of  smirch  and  stain, 

Might  claim  the  wholesome  candor  and  the  truth 
They  knew  in  youth ! 


90 


TEXAS. 


TEXAS. 

THIS  is  no  stripling,  sirs,  no  yokel  youth. 
This  bronze-limbed  Hercules  of  giant  girth  ; 
This  is  the  stoutest-thewed,  the  stanchest-souled 
In  all  the  brawny  brotherhood  of  States! 

Time  was,  perchance,  when,  indolent,  outstretched. 
Sprawled  like  a  lazy  urchin  at  his  ease. 
He  dozed  and  dreamed  the  drowsy  hours  away 
Reside  the  shallows  of  some  singing  stream. 
Or  else,  upblinking  at  a  Southern  sun, 
Watched  while  a  snowy  squadronry  of  cloud 
\Yaged  mimic  Trafalgars  on  skyey  seas. 
His  was  the  fragrance  of  the  fallow  field. 
The  burst  of  bird-song  and  the  ample  air. 
Purple  expanses  of  primeval  pine, 
And  undulant  wide  reaches  of  the  plain. 
But,  with  the  lapse  of  adolescent  years, 
Through  his  slow  pulses  swept  a  sudden  thrill, 
The  quick,  keen  impulse  of  an  ichor  new 
That  stirred  his  slumbrous  soul  to  stinging  life ; 
And  swift  off-flinging  from  his  lithesome  limbs 
Inaction's  shackles  and  the  gyves  of  ease, 

93 


TEXAS. 

Up  to  the  stalwart  stature  of  a  man 
Leaped  he,  erect,  and  Godlike  in  his  mien, 
And  looking  worldward  with  a  questing  eye 
Saw  where  his  kindred  commonwealths  had  swept 
Far  past  him  on  the  stretching  slopes  until 
Dim  showed  their  outlines  on  the  upper  steeps ! 

Thrilled  by  the  thunders  of  their  Titan  tread. 
Stung  with  a  sense  of  sluggish  slothfulness, 
Waked  to  the  wanton  wastefulness  of  years, 
He  turned  his  back  to  ease  and  dull  content 
And,  upward  faring,  set  his  steadfast  step 
Straight  toward  the  peaks  of  high  emprise,  nor  breathed 
A  half-regret  for  deedless  days  forsworn  ; 
Nor  paused  he  in  his  pilgrimage  until 
High  on  a  proud  plateau  of  aims  fulfilled 
For  a  brief  breathing-space  he  stood  and  swept 
World-ways  with  gaze  far-reaching  in  its  scope  ; 
Saw  the  dusk  pine  lands,  that  were  wont  to  lie 
Flecked  with  the  saffron  sheen  of  summer  suns 
And  flinging  lures  of  balsam  to  the  breeze. 
Freighting  the  creaking  cars  and  groaning  ships 
With  the  upyielding  of  eon's  growth  ; 
Looked  on  the  prairies,  girt  with  golden  sheaves. 
Where  full-flanked  cattle  stalked  in  sleek  content ; 
Saw  the  old  haunts,  which  erst  were  overgrown 

94 


TEXAS. 

With  brier  and  bramble  and  where  roamed  at  will 
All  countless  crawling  creatures  of  the  wild, 
Ribboned  with  streets  of  stretching  steel  that  led 
To  city  steeples  signaling  the  skies ; 
Heard  the  low  croon  of  commerce  and  the  hum 
Of  whirring  engines  and  the  lisp  of  looms. 
Panting  of  pistons  and  the  strenuous  stir 
Of  keels,  outveering  from  the  harborsides ! 

Then  with  fixed  purpose  and  a  large  resolve 
Upward  again  and  upward  turned  his  tread 
Forward  and  starward  to  the  highmost  peaks ! 


95 


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